Oops, I Left Your Personality In My Other Pants
by AmZ
Summary: A study in the undeserved abuse of a worthy character.
1. The Folly of Youth

Disclaimer: I do not own Javert. And neither does any other fanfiction writer. And yet the abuses that the poor bastard has to suffer from us are horrendous. This is a testament to the various popularly found permutations of his suffering. _In pace requiescat._

Before anyone starts screeching at me for libel, I have no one specific in mind when I write this. Well, I will for one chapter… but trust me, it'll be _really_ obvious.

* * *

The velvety _(a/n: mmmm, velvet! sounds like Velveeta, i love Velveeta!)_ darkness of the night was strewn over with diamond _(a/n: sparklez!) _stars, twinkling in their eternal vigilance over the mortals below them _(a/n: teh poeticness!)_. If they had bothered to direct their eternally vigilant _(a/n: wait didn't i use those wordz already? lolzi3z)_ gaze towards the bridge of Ponte-Au-Change _(a/n is that right? i can't spell today whoooo 2 much Cherry Coke hee hee oky i'll stop now plz review in the end, k? kthxby)_, they would see a tall man with a cane walking down it. 

He was thinking; his face was frowning.

What he could be thinking was not hard to figure out. He had spent all his life chasing a single man, and that man had turned out to be a good man. Javert's mind was boiling. Everything that seemed right was now turned out to be wrong, and what was wrong was now right _(a/n: i love that song! ok ok i'll stop now)_. Valjean was a criminal, a low, vile, dissolute _(a/n: SAT word lol) _creature without rights who deserved to be in hell for his evil deeds…

"_Nom d'un chien_, what is this rubbish you're talking..?"

Excuse me, Mr. Javert, kindly shut the heck up while I'm trying to write your patoot, mkay?

So he went out to the bridge and stood there. The rain-swollen waters below him raged and twirled and did other things raging waters do. (I don't know what they do, I've never seen a river with rain-swollen waters. It just sounds cool, so there.) Yes, he decided, he was going to do it. There was nothing to live for on Earth anymore. He had wasted his life. Justice, that faithful and stalwart goddess, turned out to be nothing but a will-o-the-wisp. Order was overturned and nullified by a single act of mercy towards him, an unworthy servant of the law…

"Careful there, you're actually starting to sound coherent."

Geez Louise, would you be quite there, Mr. Sarcastic? Like, I'm trying to write here. Gosh darn it. If you don't like my storie, don't be in it!

"Would that I could."

Ugh. Anyway,

Javert looked over the rails at the raging waters and took a deep breath. Then he took off his hat and put it down. Then he took a step back, then one forward, then another step back, then forward again, then he sort of squatted a little, then,… hey, wait a minute! HEY! I WASN'T DONE!

Shit.

Author's Note: Did you like it? I know it's short but I had to run feed my goldfish Fluffy. It was absolutely imperative that I post these 300 words right away for everyone's benefit, even though nothing happened in them that the reader wouldn't already know from reading the book or listening to the musical. PLEASE REVIEW! Oh, and no flames. Nice peoiple only plz! All flames will be used to roast marshmallows and back ribs (meta a/n: i'm soooo funny :))


	2. The Folly of Woman

_Author's Note: I'm just curious here - why is it that whenever I publish something silly like this, everyone and their mother crawls out of the woodwork to comment, but if I actually put effort into a fic, the same three people read it? Are fics that I write off the cuff really that much more interesting? Teh mystery of teh ages... _

_Anyway, on with the Javert!abuse._

* * *

Marie-Suzette-Angeline was just another secretly virtuous prostitute trying to hack in it Paris in the 1830s. She was not a great beauty, but she attracted customers with the unusual color of her mysterious violet eyes. Why her eyes were so unusual in shade, nobody knew, although her mother did try - already from her death bed - to tell her dear "Gigi" something about a curse cast upon her by an evil Gypsy fellow while she was pregnant. But then she had gone off on a tangent about the birds and the bees, and the explanation degenerated into a paroxysm of cough - her last one, as it happened. (The "curse," as Marie-Suzette-Angeline discovered during her first examination with the police doctor, turned out to be a heritable and particularly virulent form of pox, and it took five months of aggressive mercury treatments to bring it under control enough for an official permission to ply her unsavory trade on the streets of Paris.) 

Marie-Suzette-Angeline's hair was raven black, lustrous and silk to touch, even though she was secretly pushing forty under all the powder and rouge caked on her face and had no access to any hair care products containing non-abrasive detergents. She wore a whalebone corset, of course, as all women did in those backward times, but when danger reared it's ugly head, she could bravely outrun any man on her swift gazelles' feet. (She also shot from a rifle like a Green Beret in frilly lace, even though she didn't tell anybody, because she'd get put in prison for doing stuff when women weren't supposed to do stuff.)

One night she was returning home from a particularly satisfying orgy (she liked to take occasional breaks from her rather dull working life to indulge in some casual sex with a couple of her more virile johns), when she noticed something on the bridge in the distance. It was a long something - about six feet long. It's top end seemed to have some sort of fluff on it; it's bottom half was split in two from the middle on downward. It also had two similar, but shorter protrusions protrude from its top half. It seemed to be bilaterally symmetrical. It looked pensive.

While Marie-Suzette-Angeline pondered the Mysterious Object, its spatial configuration suddenly underwent a dramatic change: it tipped over, did a somersault in the air, landed with a big splash and became immediately submerged in the roaring, foaming, rain-swollen waters of the Seine.

The realization struck the young girl like a lightning bolt. The mysterious object had been a man!

"Oh my God what the fuck bar-b-que!" exclaimed Marie-Suzette-Angeline in her angelic voice evocative of silver bells and dashed off towards the bridge at a brisk unladylike trot.

The object, which had fallen into the water, was already drowned. Lucky for it, Marie-Suzette-Angeline knew CPR and took life-guarding courses at her local community college. She quickly stripped, taking care not to strip _too_ much, lest she offend some random passer-by's proto-Victorian sense of propriety, and dove into the water, raising almost no splashes and making no noise, as though her curvaceous figure was as ethereal thing, made of moonlight or something.

The water hit her lungs like a barrage of icy cold rocks. How Marie-Suzette-Angeline manage to swim back up to the surface with both lungs filled with river water and the man in toe - she was almost certain now that it was a man, because her sharp eyes discerned a moustache on his face, boots on his feet, and a highly intriguing bulge in his trouser pocket, - she did not know herself. She came to on the bank of the raging river, struggling for breath as waters redolent of sewage poured off her creamy shoulders. When she had recovered some of the lung capacity she had enjoyed prior to her selflessly brave and daring rescue, she gazed longingly at the fellow she pulled to the surface. (The longing was pre-emptive: he was still soggy and sort of dead-looking, but she figured it would be better to put her best business face on first and _then_ give first aid. Plus she's always sort of had a thing for tall dead guys.)

After several long, intense minutes of mouth-to-mouth…

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

Kindly keep your silence, monsueir! I am trying to express myself here!

Anyway, after several minutes of mouth-to-mouth/enthusiastic snogging, Marie-Suzette-Angeline spat out the last of the river water she had sucked out of the inspector's lungs…

"How did she know I was an inspector?"

You are wearing your uniform. Now,..

"What uniform, you jade? The only uniformed police in Paris are _sergeants-de-ville_, the soldiers and the National Guard! Inspectors are…"

I don't care what the inspectors are, _gosh_! It's only FANFICTION! Kindly shut you're whole and let me write!

"I don't think so."

The inspector rose, pulled some clinging reeds off his sleeve and firmly pushed out of his way the half-nude female with bosoms the size of overripe melons and the eyes of a syphilitic guinea pig. Sticking a hand into his trouser pocket, he pulled out his silver snuffbox and glumly shook out of it several brownish clumps of what was once excellent tobacco. Then, ignoring the moans and sobs issuing from the lily-white throat of the woman and barely evading her grab for his trouser leg, Javert headed back upstream.

What? Wait, whe, where the heck do you think you are going?

"Away from you and back to the bridge."

Huh? Dude, what gives? You're supposed to go back with Marie-Suzette-Angeline back to her poor-but-clean-and-tastefully-furnished hovel and have wild monkey sex!

"Why?"

Why, what do you mean, 'why'? She just saved your life!

"Hmm. You know, Valjean saved my life earlier today, too – oughtn't I give him first dibs?"

NO, you sick perv! Look, she's sweet, she's strong, she's ready to overhaul her shameful lifestyle, she loves Jesus, and she's awash in feminine mystique – she's perfect for you! She'll make all your troubles go away!

"My only trouble is your damn voice inside my head. I don't know what sort of suicides you are used to, mademoiselle, but where I come from, people who try to kill themselves quietly in the dark of night actually _want_ to die. What made you think I'd appreciate being revived by some two-bit whore, and in such a foul manner to boot?"

But… but she's a _hottie! _

"And I'm a fifty-two year old virgin. Believe me, it wasn't meant to be."

Behind him, the buxom half-nude female let out a lusty bellow that would put a cow in heat to shame. Javert quickened his pace.


	3. The Folly of Poet

**On the bridge**

* * *

The solemn man stands

With his hat in his hand

His soul is benumbed

His mind is confused

How can it be

That a convict can be good?

That a law-breaker can have honor?

How can anything supercede Justice,

That white-winged Goddess without a fault?

Perfect, in her icy coldness,

Who pulled him out of a disgraced life

Full of condescension and loathing

And gave him a sword and instructed to watch

Over those whocalled him names when he was little?

Surely there can be nothing in life above duty?

Surely…

_"Surely my skull is about to crack._

_I thought I escaped you. I see I was wrong._

_Once more, who the bloody hell are you,_

_And why is your twaddle polluting my brains?"_

One moment, Inspector, you're just about done.

_"With what? With this mind-numbing claptrap?"_

How can you say that, when this is a faithful rendition

Of your innermost thoughts!

_"What would you know of my innermost thoughts,_

_You dim-witted underage bint?_

_How dare you reduce my reflections_

_To trains of clichés and pretentious inanities?"_

Just three more lines, okay?

And we'll close with an ardent account

Of how Jean Valjean has compelled you to die.

And then you'll be free to proceed with the jump

And face your predestined damnation in Hell.

_"Bugger off. And take with you your idiot sisters."_

What sisters?

_"The ones who've been driving me crazy all night_

_With their brainless antics. Since I made up my mind to escape..."_

Oh! 'Escape'! That reminds me: the last line

Must end with this word, since the musical had it…

_"And I have a question: why not Beranger?"_

...I'm sorry, say wha?

_"I asked you, why not Beranger?_

_If you feel inspired to render my thoughts into verse_

_You can scarcely do better than borrow from him._

_Or from Francois Villon, whom I also adore."_

I don't know who they are.

I am sure, nonetheless,

That they wrote whatever they wrote

With meter and rhymes.

I know nothing of that;

I am of the enlightened opinion

That poetry is an eathereal thing

(Did I spell that correctly?)

Which ought not be constrained

With constructions and schemes,

But must flow from one's heart like a life-giving river,

Uninhibited, free…

_"…And unburdened with grace or with rhythm?  
_

Even so! But I know not why you fight me, good sir!

Don't you see that I know how you feel?

_"How is that? Are you prone to unwanted_

_Monumental inversions of ethical paradigm_

_That imprison your brain_

_In the clutches of cognitive dissonance?"_

...I don't get it.

_"Precisely."_

Oh, you're making too much of a fuss!

Look, it's easy to write you!

Poetry lends itself well to your musings.

It is simple: position some Justice and Duty

On one side of the scales

And then place a convict

(Crowning him first with a halo)

On the other for counterbalance.

Voila! Insta-torment.

_"You know, I'd be glad_

_To recite even Aimé Cesaire._

_Or Rimbaud. Or Breton. Or perhaps…"_

Will you shut up already? I don't know them!

All I know is your songs from the musical

And some e.e. cummings we went over last week

In Contemporary English and American Lit!

And if you're unhappy with that,

Then just go to Hell, mister!

_"With pleasure. Adieu!"_

...rustle...

...splash...

Mthrfckr.


End file.
